The protagonist of this story, revisiting the fragmented world of his past, began to recollect here:
In a cafĂŠ, Monday morning,
over a hundred years later.
photographs and texts luca farinelli
A mia madre e mio padre, ad Eugenio.
The journey to Terminal 5 started at 7.15am. 1x Beechams All In One, South Ealing. Beechams: paracetamol 250mg, guaifenesin 100mg, phenylephrine hydrochloride 5mg. I nodded and swallowed the pill, with no water.
6
7
When I was just a boy, it always rained that night. Year after year. From time to time the president, or the side dish, changed, but the rain was always the same.
We drove through Roma EUR. Esposizione Universale Roma, a district built by Benito Mussolini. White travertine marble.
8
9
There were a variety of rooms, and each was related to a rione1 in the heart of Rome.
I walked into one.
Its dull, red walls troubled me greatly, as if I had gone through a memory that did not belong to me.
1.
Rione is the name given to a neighbourhood in several Italian cities. A rione is just a territorial subdivision.
10
11
12
13
This is what Sartre thinks about God: “ You see this emptiness over our heads? That is God. You see this breach in the walls? It is God. You see that hole in the ground? That is God again. The silence is God. The absence is God. God is the loneliness of man. If God exists, man is nothing; if man exists, God does not exist. God is dead. I shall remain alone with empty sky above me, since I have no other way of being among men.”2
2. 14
From Act 3, Scene 10 of Sartre’s Lucifer and the Lord.
15
My apartment was empty. All was calm, silent. Beautiful, a beauty that was at once ordered and ordinary. The day I left, all was calm and silent.
16
17
For several months, he, as a Christian, would only ever say:
18
“thy will be done...”.
19
20
When I met Le Corbusier, I noticed in astonishment that he smelled of a woman.
Fears and frustrations catalysed by thirty-something square metres. Hidden by the shadow, a note scrawled on the back of a torn receipt read: “she was all about…”. I sat down at lunch. She was all about what? It was night already, when I surrendered and went back to what was no longer my home. “she was all about forgiveness”.
21
No more sick jokes.
22
23
I need commitment.
24
25
I need something real.
26
27
There was no point in my ruthless struggle to go back to the moment before what should not have happened simply happened.
28
29
This isn’t 2009.*
30
*mainly because I’m not taking Cefixoral 400mg.
31
32
33
I found happiness on the way to the changing room. Happiness was formed by 202 characters and came to me in the form of a text message. According to Proceedings of the 13th IEEE Symposium on Computers and Communications (2008, pp. 700–705), around 1% to 5% of text messages are lost entirely, even during normal operation conditions. My happiness could have been lost, entirely.
I got lost for two hours descending the peak: no roads or cities or anything at the horizon. Only trees and rocks and rivers that I could not cross. I found my way back when the panic was about to take over. A sort of allegory of life. (a sort of allegory of her)
34
35
Years later, I remembered. The dull red room was just moments away from me. (I reached out and opened the door) A girl in a nightgown was nattering over the phone. An old man was sat on the sofa, one arm hanging lasciviously from the armrest, his face indefinite. He had some stories to tell.
36
37
38
39
Lonely amongst all those people I couldn’t talk to, I sat on the edge of platform 14, my legs swaying over the dead end track. I had no unexpected encounter.
40
41
Early in the morning, I particularly enjoyed the church of San Pietro in Montorio, designed by Baccio Pontelli - although Vasari himself says it is uncertain. Now, I find uncertain pleasure elsewhere.
42
43
44
45
My dear, yesterday I thought about the past. Thoughts that eclipsed my present, blots of events that blurred the future. My world of shelves, my beloved collections of memories, regrets, joys, sorrows; all blurring, all blurred. In a minute. Yesterday, or two years ago, or ten, or perhaps: all had been blurred a hundred thousand years ago.
46
47
I pushed the mosquito net aside as I entered Da Bètuda for the first time. Behind the old espresso machine, the barista was toying absently with her many rings, her eyes staring at nowhere. She stopped. Every evening, before going home in the town nearby, she would clean the machine in a triumph of steam and smiles. I sat by the counter. In a cafÊ, Monday morning, over a hundred years later.
Five floors. A man carried my luggage up the stairs, to my room. He didn’t say a word.
48
49
A woman in a purple dress is standing in front of me; her man leans on the wall of the church. A.D. 1300 circa. Inside, ancient women are chanting. Holy Mass. They chant of love and life. The day ended with a woman standing in front of me, dressed in purple. The day ended at 6pm.
50
51
52
Printed in London in 2014 Photographs, texts and design Š Luca Farinelli lucafarinelli.co.uk info@lucafarinelli.co.uk
In a cafĂŠ, Monday morning, over a hundred years later. 2010 - 2014